Page 20 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B
But I tell myself it’ll pass.
I’m wearing no bra,
only jeans and a sweatshirt.
My panties are still damp in the glovebox, proof I can fuck the feelings out.
BQE’s half-shut for overnight construction, but I take it anyway. Fifth Avenue’s maybe thirty minutes if traffic stays dead.
She’s sleeping, this city.
Music’s on low.
A Cigarettes After Sex track.
The voice in the song sounds drunk.
Ash flakes across my thigh.
I don’t brush it off. I don’t care.
My heart’s slumped in the passenger seat, refusing to wear her seatbelt, mascara staining her cheeks, looking out the window.
She won’t look at me.
“I had to,” I mutter.
She’s disgusted. She knows what I did and shakes her head, like—Okay, okay—we’re monsters. Got it, as she stares straight ahead, as if a part of her doesn’t need amputating.
Hope it was worth it.
TRACK NO. 10: YOU DON’T OWN ME
LESLEY GORE
// ANDREW - SEPT 30, ’24, 12:30 AM - ELLE’S BACK PORCH - BLOOMFIELD, NJ //
“Mi sono rotto i coglioni.”
Andrew Harding’s a fuckin’ statue.
He’s stuck there—dumbass of the year—half-eaten by the midnight hour, one foot on the bottom step, his left hand grippin’ the porch rail as if it might swing at him first. The other hand’s in his pocket, tryin’ to cage the rage as he stands there, starin’ up at three girls drippin’ in porchlight, and Elle, in his dead friend’s jersey.
One girl cackles from the swing. “If it ain’t Andrew Harding—the man, the myth, the mouth.” Another hushes her from behind a phone with a camera aimed right at him.
Underneath it all, some cracklin’ old song with a vintage voice crawls out of fuzzy speakers from somewhere in the house. It’s playin’ low, worn-out, faint like it’s comin’ from another time.
The rain’s gone but the air’s still damp, still stickin’ to his skin. It’s a cooler night, but heat from sweat still found a way to bake itself into the nape of his neck, curl behind his ears, his white tee suctioning to his spine.
He’s got his teeth clenched, tryin’ to block out the whole scene. But he’s already standin’ in it, fucked. It’s already a memory: a porch, a song, a 1960s waltz torchin’ the ground beneath his feet, girls laughin’, moths zappin’—the kind of moment that comes back whenever midnight turns bitter and September-colored.
Yeah, he never thought the story’d flip like this: him and Roger both ghosts, Elle out here grinnin’, glass full of Prosecco and no fucks, Roger’s jersey number sittin’ small on her tit, 59 stitched above the curve.
They were thirteen when Roger picked his number, right after the season Aroldis Chapman threw a fastball and beat the record at 105.8 mph. Roger wanted everyone to know he was next. “One-oh-five-point-nine,” he said, mouth full of Big League Chew. “All I need is a tenth, and I’ll make history.”
His number 59 never changed after that.
They played on the same travel team in the summers—Jersey State Heat. Roger pitched, and Andrew played first. It didn’t matter that Andrew wasn’t from Montclair. Coach liked his reflexes, said Andrew had hands like Velcro and always knew where the ball was goin’ before the ball did. His moms only let him join the team ‘cause Coach agreed to pick him up from Union City every other weekend.
